Hotchkiss 

The  Birthright:  A  Romantic 
Comedy  of  Old  France 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"         BIRTHRIGHT/ 


A  ROMANTIC  COMEDY  OF  OI,D  FRANCE 


BY 


GEORGE  BURTON  HOTCHKISS 


NAUGATUCK 

THE  PERRY  PRESS 

1906 

*  '' 

K 

'  'i   ^ 

^-     '•>•.*    ' 

,' 

534. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

This  poem  received  the  ninth  award  of  the  prize 
offered  by  Professor  Albert  Stanburrough  Cook  to 
Yale  University  for  the  best  unpublished  verse,  the 
Committee  of  Award  being  Professors  Charles  Sears 
Baldwin,  Henry  van  Dyke,  and  George  Rice  Car- 
penter. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONA 


UONHARD,  Count  of  Aquiiaine. 
ROLAND, 


[MI 

r, ) 


•  his  Sons. 
GEOFFREY, 

RICHARD,  Count  of  Brittany. 
VIVIAN,  his  Daughter. 
COUNTESS  OF  AQUITAINE. 

MINSTRELS,  HUNTSMEN,  SOLDIERS,  ETC. 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE.— The  action  of  this  comedy  is  represented  as  of 
the  X  tilth  Century,  but  historical  faithfulness  is  not  claimed  for  it.  An 
attempt  has  been  made,  however,  to  embody  in  it  the  spirit  of  the  French 
medieval  times  as  I  have  found  it  in  Old  French  literature,  taking  only 
such  liberties  as  the  license  of  the  romancer  may  allow. 

The  first  song  in  Act  I.  is  a  translation  from  Marie  de  France's  Lai  dt 
Chievrefwil,  lines  44-78.  The  song  in  Act  IV.  is  translated  from  the  Cfinit- 
ton  de  Roland,  lines  645  667.  The  second  song  in  Act  II.  is  translated  from 
Panard's  The  Two  Loves. 


THE  BIRTHRIGHT 
ACT  I 

Hall  in  the  Castle  of  the  COUNT  OF  AQUITAINE. 
COUNTESS  and  a  number  of  MINSTREI^S  discovered. 

MINSTREL.    [/Sings] 
When  Tristram  hears  the  peasant's  tale, 
His  heart  is  freed  from  all  its  bale; 
For,  since  the  queen  is  coming  nigh, 
He  '11  see  her  ere  she  passes  by. 
Straightway  he  seeks  a  woody  brake 
Along  the  road  which  she  must  take; 
There  finds  a  stocky  hazel-tree, 
Peels  off  its  bark,  and  carefully 
Inscribes  it  with  his  name;  the  queen 
Will  see  and  know  what  this  may  mean, 
For  often  in  the  former  days 
They  trysted  by  such  cunning  ways. 
Then  on  the  shaven  wood  he  clipt 
These  tender  words  in  secret  script: 
'  Long  have  I  watched  and  waited  here, 
To  see  thee  whom  I  love  so  dear; 
— Love  thee! — Nay  more,  my  life  thou  art, 
As  close  united  to  my  heart 
As  to  the  hazel  is  the  vine — 
The  fragrant-blossomed  eglantine: 


His  every  leafy  branch  is  wound 
By  her  sweet  tendrils,  round  and  round; 
And  when  she's  torn  from  his  embrace, 
Both  fade  and  wither,  and  die  apace. 
Dear  love,  with  us  't  is  even  so, 
When  kept  apart,  no  life  we  know.' 

Enter  the  COUNT  in  hunting  costume. 

COUNT. 

What!     Are  these  silly  j anglings  never  to  cease 
Within  my  walls?    Say,  madam,  must  I  find, 
Each  day  when  I  return,  all  sweat-bedrenched 
From  manly  chase,  a  score  of  perfumed  boys 
Stretched  at  their  ease  before  thee,  strumming  rotes, 
And  chanting  lays  of  hot  adulterous  love  ? 
Methinks  thy  time  is  most  un wifely  spent; 
Ere  long  the  serving- maids  will  be  employed 
In  mixing  potions  thou  may'st  drink,  and  thus 
Excuse  the  deeds  these  wanton  songs  inspire; 
And  every  hazel-tree  for  miles  around 
Will  bear  a  carven  name  for  trysting-sign. 

COUNTESS. 

The  hunt  hath  overheated  you,  my  lord; 

You  do  not  mean  these  words  —  you  cannot  dream 

That  I  should  be  forgetful  of  my  vows. 

Have  I  not  held  your  side  in  storm  and  calm  ? 

COUNT. 
Truce  to  thy  pleading!     So  art  thou  imbued 


With  these  soft  phrases,  thou  might' st  charm  me  deaf 
To  all  my  fears.     'Twere  well  to  look  before, 
Not  sink  in  stifling  sweet  remembrances. 
I  never  found  that  one  who  loved  to  hear 
Such  amorous  tales,  longed  not  to  act  them  too. 

COUNTESS. 

My  lord,  whatever  hospitality  I  show 

To  this  fair  band  of  gleemen  is  but  due 

To  our  son's  memory,  for  he,  perchance, 

Is  somewhere  heard,  and  praised,  and  lodged,  and  fed, 

As  these  are  here;  or  he  may  suffer  cold, 

Hunger,  and  thirst,  as  these  have  often  done. 

COUNT. 

Tush,  woman,  if  thou  speak'st  the  truth,  this  thing 
Is  worst  of  all.     Never  would  he  have  gone 
Into  his  vagabondage,  were  it  not 
This  vicious  minstrelsy,  dinned  in  his  ears 
From  boyhood,  had  so  filled  his  idle  brain 
That  all  the  proper  knightly  faith  he  owed 
Was  driven  out.     And  so  he  chose  to  be 
A  rambling  singer,  lowest  of  the  low! 
These  caitiffs — O  ye  filthy  scum  of  earth! — 
These  churls,  I  say,  have  robbed  us  of  a  son, 
And  knighthood  of  a  flower  that  promised  well. 
Have  they  not  done  enough?     Or  wishest  thou 
To  lose  our  other  son,  or  my  own  love  ? 


COUNTESS. 

You  do  mistake.     Roland  did  not  depart 

This  house  because  infected  by  these  songs. 

'Twas  rather  that  he  did  not  wish  to  wed, 

Unless  himself  should  choose.     And  not  until 

You  sent  him  word,  returning  after  wars, 

That  while  away,  you  'd  found  for  him  a  bride — 

The  daughter  of  the  Count  of  Brittany — 

Did  he  so  much  as  dream  of  minstrel-life. 

But  when  he  learned  your  wish — 't  was  sudden,  sire 

He  vowed  that  only  love  should  be  his  guide, 

And,  knowing  your  unbending  will,  stayed  not 

To  urge  his  cause,  but  left  his  home  forthwith. 

I  ween,  if  you  should  humor  him  in  this, 

He  would  return. 

COUNT. 

I  will  not!     By  my  faith, 
I  will  not!     Let  this  be  the  final  word. 
In  vain  thou  'It  plead  for  him.     Who  ever  heard 
Of  sons  thus  combating  their  sires'  behests  ? 
Not  in  my  youth,  at  least!     But  in  those  days 
We  had  not  such  a  whey-faced  minstrel-throng 
As  these,  who  sing  fantastic  tales  of  love. 
Nay,  ours  were  lusty  troubadours,  with  hearts 
Tuned  to  the  trumpet-clang;  and  in  their  songs 
We  heard  the  echo  of  strong  feats  at  arms, 
And  thrilled  with  fire  of  war.     Now,  when  I  see 
Their  followers,  I  long  to  slit  their  tongues, 

8 


For  kindling  disobedience  and  lust. 
Howe'er  it  be,  thou  need'st  not  favor  them 
For  the  sake  of  him — I  will  not  call  him  son — 
Who  did  not  heed  my  wish,  and  I  command 
Thou  shalt  erase  him  from  thy  memory. 

COUNTESS. 
My  lord,  I  cannot,  if  I  would. 

COUNT. 

Thou  must! 

And  to  that  end,  I  will  dismiss  thy  horde 
Of  parasites.     Henceforth  no  minstrel-knave 
Shall  come  within  my  gates.     Now,  by  the  mass, 
Here  is  another! 

Enter  VIVIAN  in  minstrel-dress,  bearing  a  rote. 

Well,  my  pretty  lad, 

I  trow  thou  hast  been  told  of  Aquitaine — 
How  hospitable  we  are,  how  fond  of  song, 
And  free  of  purse  as  praise.     We're  fain  to  know 
Thy  metal.     Prithee,  chant  a  soothing  lay 
Of  love  and  mistresses,  of  fondling  hands 
And  burning  kisses,  such  as  Tristram  had 
With  belle  Isoude. 

VIVIAN. 

My  lord,  I  cannot  this. 
I  tell  of  things  that  I  have  felt  or  seen — 
Those  only. 


COUNT. 

Sooth,  what  should  that  be,  save  love? 
Perchance  't  is  war,  for,  by  thy  seasoned  face, 
I  deem  that  thou  hast  known  the  battle-shock. — 
Ah,  now  I  have  it,  thou  art  come  to  learn. 
In  faith,  here's  one  will  teach  thee  all  the  rites. 

VIVIAN. 

Not  so,  my  lord.     I  never  had  desire 
Either  for  love  or  war. 

COUNT. 

What  jest  is  this? 
Naught  else  is  there  to  sing  of  but  of  these. 

VIVIAN. 

Naught  else  ?    What  of  the  beauties  God  hath  spread 
Around  us  —  field  and  forest,  brook  and  stream? 
Of  these  I  sing,  and  of  the  hunt  and  chase, 
That  give  the  sweetest  pleasures  in  the  world. 

FIRST  MINSTREL. 
Meseems  our  girlish  friend  would  form  a  school. 

SECOND  MIXSTRKL. 
Nay,  hath  already  formed  it. 

THIRD  MINSTREL. 

With  himself 
The  only  pupil. 

10 


COUNT. 

Varlets,  get  you  gone! 

And  bid  your  last  farewell  to  these  my  halls, 
That  shall  be  closed  to  you  henceforth. 

[ Exeunt  MINSTRELS,  COUNTESS  following. 

My  lad, 
Thou  speakest  pithily.     I'll  hear  thy  song. 

VIVIAN.  [Sings'] 

O,  the  fields  are  green,  with  a  silver  sheen, 

Where  the  dew  besprinkled  lies; 
And  violets  peep  from  their  dreamy  sleep, 

With  shrinking,  half-shut  eyes. 
'T  is  morn!    'T  is  morn!     Come  wind  the  horn! 

Let  laughter  echo  long, 
And  melody  float  from  every  throat, 

For  life  is  all  a  song! 

The  courser  champs  his  bit,  and  stamps; 

The  boar-hounds  fret  their  chains; 
The  beagles  bay  at  the  long  delay, 

And  the  hooded  falcon  strains. 
Sluggards,  arise,  and  rub  your  eyes, 

Cloyed  with  your  honeyed  sleep! 
The  deer  in  the  brake  are  seeking  the  lake, 

And  the  hares  from  the  covert  leap. 

Come,  mount  your  steed,  nor  check  his  speed, 

Strong  for  the  chase  and  fleet; 
Across  the  fields,  the  grass  scarce  yields 

To  the  touch  of  his  flying  feet. 


II 


The  breezes  smite  till  your  eyes  grow  bright, 
And  the  blood  in  your  cheeks  is  rife; 

Then  you  feel  a  glow  at  your  heart,  and  know 
That  to  live  is  the  joy  of  life. 

COUNT. 

I  cannot  thank  thee,  lad,  but  this  I  'Id  say: 
Thine  is  the  only  song  that  I  have  heard 
Since  —  O,  I  dare  not  count  the  years.    'T  is  long 
Since  I  have  felt  my  heart  so  quickly  throb, 
Or  deemed  the  breezes  bore  a  sound  more  sweet 
Than  their  own  laughter.  Thou  hast  waked  my  youth, 
And  I  would  have  thee  ever  with  me.     Stay, 
Canst  thou  not  be  a  comrade  to  my  son  ? 
For  music,  with  its  gentle-fingered  touch, 
Hath  power  to  guide  the  soul  to  right  or  wrong, 
And  thine  's  the  master-hand. 
VIVIAN. 

Gladly,  my  lord, 

So  long  as  you  '11  desire. 

[Exit  COUNT. 

Now  may  I  prove 

What  kind  of  man  is  he  to  whom  I  'm  pledged. 
Marry,  I  know  I  '11  hate  him.     Why  should  I 
Be  mated  thus,  to  one  I  had  not  seen  ? — 
But  truth,  I  would  I  had  not  come.     I  fear 
'Twas  Folly  launched  me  on  this  voyage.     Well, 
'Tis  done,  and  now  I  '11  bear  my  boldest  face 
To  match  this  manly  garb.     Look,  there  he  comes! 

13 


What  arrogance  sits  in  his  face!     I  knew  't  — 
I  'd  sooner  wed  a  Saracen  than  him. 

Enter  GEOFFREY. 

GEOFFREY. 

Pardie,  art  thou  the  knave  my  sire  prefers 

To  all  the  merry  band  that  thronged  our  house, 

And  made  its  pillars  quake  with  purple  laughter  ? 

Meseems  the  world  is  rolling  backward.     Next, 

I'll  have  a  puppet  to  amuse  me.     Then, 

Who  knows  but  I'll  be  cradled  every  night, 

And  one  shall  sing  me  soothing  lullabies. 

VIVIAN. 

In  faith,  it  hath  already  come  to  this; 
Since  fretfulness  bespeaks  a  sleepy  babe, 
I  '11  rime  you  into  slumber-land. 

[Sings] 

Caroling  low,  caroling  low, 
Through  the  nodding  tree-tops  the  breezes  blow; 

Caroling  low,  caroling  low, 
Through  the  grassy  meadows  the  brooklets  flow; 

Caroling  low,  caroling  low, 
The  winds  and  the  woods  and  the  waters  go, 

Crooning  their  songs  for  thee, 

All,  little  one,  for  thee. 

GEOFFREY. 

Thou  saucy  chit,  methinks  a  sturdy  cuff 
Upon  thy  lips  would  be  a  meet  reward 


For  this  thy  baby-song.     But  no,  I  fear 

They  would  bleed  milk.     Now  mark  me  well,  my  lad! 

Though  thou  art  'stablished  here — for  old  men's  whims 

Must  needs  be  humored  —  keep  thy  tongue  in  check. 

Think  not  that  primrose  faces  shall  excuse 

Presumption. 

VIVIAN. 

Nay,  nor  that  a  haughty  mien 
Gives  warrant  to  abuse. 

GEOFFREY. 

I  have  no  mind 
To  listen  to  thy  childish  driveling. 

[Exit. 
VIVIAN. 

So  this  is  he  to  whom  I  should  be  wed. 

I  '11  gage  I  shall  not.     How  to  scape  this  fate 

Is  now  the  question.     I  must  ponder  it. 

[Exit. 


ACT  II 

The  Castle  Cmirtyard.    Enter  tlw  COUNT  and  GEOFFREY. 

COUNT. 

Speak,  Geoffrey,  for  I  trow  thou  hast  a  mind 
Pregnant  with  question.     Why  art  thou  so  mute? 

GEOFFREY. 

It  is  the  reverence  a  son  should  feel 
Before  his  sire,  that  chokes  my  utterance 

COUNT. 

Well  said!  I  did  but  prove  thee,  for  I  know 
What  thou  wouldst  ask  —  't  is  of  my  pilgrimage, 
Whither  and  why  I  make  it. 

GEOFFREY. 

True,  dear  sire. 
COUNT. 

My  goal  is  Brittany;  my  purpose  one 

Concerns  thee  nearly.     Thou  art  of  an  age 

When  thou  should 'st  wed,  and  since  thy  brother  Roland 

Hath  sold  his  birth-right  for  a  song  —  or  less  — 

And  thou  art  heir,  't  is  meet  that  his  betrothed 

Be  thine.     To  compass  this  I  '11  see  the  Count. 

15 


GEOFFREY. 

I  am  most  grateful,  sire,  for  this,  and  all 
Your  kindnesses,  which  I  shall  study  how 

To  merit. 

Enter  VIVIAN. 

COUNT. 

Spoken  like  the  son  thou  art ; 

And,  while  I  am  gone,  since  thou  'It  be  master  here, 
I  would  have  all  things  done  as  now  they  are; 
And,  most  of  all,  I  'd  have  thee  spend  much  time 
In  exercise,  since  blood,  like  iron,  rusts 
With  idleness.     Here's  one  will  second  thee, 
For  though  a  minstrel,  yet  he  seems  to  have 
A  knightly  love  o'  the  hunt. 

[To  VIVIAN] 

Is  it  not  so  ? 
VIVIAN. 

Right  gladly  will  I  join  the  chase,  my  lord, 
Though  all  unskilled.     And  when,  with  trophies  won, 
The  huntsmen  homeward  jog,  I  '11  stroke  their  ears 
With  soother  music  than  the  snoring  horn. 

COUNT. 

Good  faith,  met  hints  you  '11  not  lack  merriment. 
Ho,  Giles! 

Enter  an  ESQUIRE. 

Is  all  prepared  ?    Our  palfreys  saddled  ? 
All  the  sumpter  horses  laden  ? 

16 


ESQUIRE. 

Sire, 
They  wait  your  pleasure. 

COUNT. 

Let  us,  then,  be  gone. 

We  shall  be  absent  twenty  days,  perchance  — 
Not  less,  I  think.     Till  when,  adieu. 

{Exit. 
GEOFFREY. 

Not  less, 

I  hope.    Parbleu,  I  've  not  had  breathing-space 
Since  he  came  home  from  wars  —  what  with  the  hunt, 
The  bouts  with  swords,  the  polishing  of  arms, 
And  such  like  tedious  duties.     Now  I  'm  free, 
And  shall  enjoy  the  sweeter  fruits  of  life. 
But  best  of  all,  I  'in  soon  to  take  a  bride  — 
A  round-limbed,  full-lipped  creature,  I  'm  assured, 
Breathing  of  fire  and  love  — 

VIVIAN. 

O,  but  she's  not — 

I  know  her  —  she  is  slender,  maidenish, 
As  cold  and  chaste  as  snow  — 

GEOFFREY. 

How  know'st  thou  this, 
Or  who  she  is  ? 

VIVIAN. 

Is  she  not  Vivian, 
The  daughter  of  the  Count  of  Brittany  ? 

17 


In  sooth,  the  veriest  vixen  in  all  France; 

A  temper  hath  she  like  the  month  of  March, 

Sullen  and  fretful. 

GEOFFREY. 

Naught  care  I  for  that; 
I  warrant  I  can  tame  her.     An  she  prove 
Of  form  unlovely,  that  were  greater  ill; 
Yet  may  she  serve  a  time. 

VIVIAN. 

And  then  ? 

GEOFFREY. 

Why,  then, 

Methinks  I  '11  do  as  other  husbands  use, 
When  weary  of  their  wives. 

VIVIAN. 

As  othtr  beasts! 
GEOFFREY. 

Hark  ye,  my  lad!     I  warned  thee  once  before, 
I  would  not  brook  thy  insolence. 
Remember  who  I  am. 

Enter  RETAINER  in  hunting-dress. 

What  want'st  thou  here? 
HUNTSMAN. 
Your  horse  is  saddled,  sire,  and  we  await. 

18 


GEOFFREY. 

An  if  ye  stay  for  me,  the  evening  dews 

Will  daub  your  beards  with  hoar.     I  shall  not  hunt 

To-day,  nor  to-morrow  —  no,  nor  any  day 

Until  I  list.     But,  ere  thou  gotest,  fetch 

A  flagon,  brimmed  with  wine. 

[Exit  HUNTSMAN. 

Faith,  there  's  the  hunt 

Hath  charms  for  me.    When  one  hath  reached  the  end, 
He  's  the  more  ready  to  begin  anew; 
But  in  the  deer-chase,  when  the  quarry  's  struck, 
All 's  done.    And  what  is  gained  ?    A  haunch  of  flesh, 
Which  one  might  have  for  the  asking.     Why  be  Count, 
If  I  must  toil  and  labor,  like  the  herd 
Of  common  churls  ? 

Enter  HUNTSMAN  with  flagon  and  two  beakers,  which  he  fills. 

Nay,  here's  a  better  way 
For  one  of  noble  birth  to  spend  his  time. 
What  sayest  thou,  lad? 

VIVIAN. 

Nothing  that  I  think; 
And  since  I  would  not  flatter,  nothing  else. 

GEOFFREY. 

Marry,  thou  wilt  not  be  a  minstrel  long, 
An  thou  dost  not  become  an  arrant  liar. 


Perchance  that  were  as  well.     The  monkish  cloth 

Would  better  suit  thy  color.     Thou  might'st  frown, 

As  thou  dost  now,  on  all  our  petty  sins, 

And,  for  a  penance,  make  us  hear  thy  songs. — 

Be  not  so  vexed,  good  knave,  I  do  but  jest; 

I  would  be  merry;  rime  me  some  brisk  tale 

Of  love  and  ladies,  such  as  most  befits 

A  festive  day,  when  wine  is  flowing  free. 

VIVIAN. 
I  know  a  drinking  song,  an  that  might  serve. 

GEOFFREY. 

Most  royally!     I'm  fain  to  hear  thy  verse. 
VIVIAN.  [Sings] 

One  spring-time  morn  I  lay  in  idle  ease, 

And  listened  to  the  laughing  of  the  breeze, 

For  life  was  young,  and  all  seemed  meant  to  please; 

And  from  my  throat  a  song  leapt  up. 
No  day  of  churlish  toil  and  sweat  was  mine; 
While  others  tilled  the  ground,  and  trained  the  vine, 
And  pressed  the  purple  grape,  I  poured  the  wine 

And  drained  the  brimming  cup. 

GEOFFREY. 

My  faith,  this  is  the  strangest  drinking  song! 
But  sing  the  rest.     It  hath  a  pleasant  air. 

VIVIAN.  [Sinys] 

But  ah,  how  changed,  when  chill  the  evening  came, 
No  longer  through  my  body  coursed  the  flame; 


30 


I  sought  the  cup  —  the  charm  was  not  the  same; 

The  wine  was  bitter  as  the  lees. 
The  peasants  have  few  joys,  and  few  require 
Save  cardinal,  fresh  bubbling  from  the  fire. 
Within  my  heart  still  burns  the  old  desire, 

But  pleasure  cannot  please. 

GEOFFREY. 

A  plague  upon  thee.     Are  thy  sugared  cates 
All  tinct  with  wormwood  thus  ?  Come,  drink  with  me, 
And  drown  thy  folly!     Thou  will  soon  unsay 
These  dreary  moonings,  only  meet  for  monks. 

VIVIAN. 

Why,  such,  fair  lord,  you  said  that  I  did  seem, 
And  't  were  a  foul  discourtesy  should  I 
Belie  your  judgment. 

GEOFFREY. 

Tush,  lad,  let  it  pass  ! 
Make  merry  with  me,  as  a  minstrel  should, 
And  here 's  a  song  that  more  befits  the  day: 

[Sings] 

O,  I  love  women,  and  I  love  wine; 

They  share  my  tenderness  equally, 
And  equally  wilder  this  brain  of  mine 

With  a  sweet  and  lovable  ecstasy. 
How  fair  is  she,  and  he,  how  strong  ! 
This  is  the  burden  of  all  my  song. 

When  the  wine  flows  into  my  thirsty  heart, 
And  when  I  thrill  to  my  mistress'  kiss, 

21 


Through  all  my  body  the  soft  flames  dart, 
And  I  chant  in  wondrous  excess  of  bliss; 
How  fair  is  she,  and  he,  how  strong  ! 
This  is  the  burden  of  all  my  song. 

Nanette,  fanning  the  fire  of  love, 
Gives  to  the  wine  a  sweeter  zest; 

So  does  the  cup  her  beauty  improve, 
And  her  charms  are  in  fairer  light  confessed. 

How  fair  is  she,  and  he,  how  strong  ! 

This  is  the  burden  of  all  my  song. 

And  when  unkindly  has  frowned  her  eye, 
What  but  the  nectar  has  soothed  my  pain  ? 

A  score  of  times  she  hath  made  me  die, 
And  the  wine  hath  given  me  life  again. 

How  fair  is  she,  and  he,  how  strong  ! 

This  is  the  burden  of  all  my  song. 

GEOFFREY.  [Speaks] 

Now  drink  a  toast  with  me,  my  bonny  boy; 
Here  's  a  long  journey  to  my  sire  —  to  me 
A  speedy  marriage.  [Drink*] 

Here  's  a  buxom  wife, 
Whose  lips  I  '11  open  as  the  robber-bee 
The  half-blown  rose,  and  suck  her  sweetness  out,- 
And  here  's  the  other  fragrant  flowers  I  '11  kiss 
When  surfeited  with  her.  [Drinks] 

Come,  drink  the  toast  ! 
Thou  hast  not  touched  the  cup. 

VIVIAN. 

I  will  not. 


GEOFFREY. 

Drink, 

I  say  thou  shalt.     Nor  this  one  toast  alone, 
But  many  after.     First,  to  my  betrothed, 
The  flower  of  Brittany.     An  thou  wilt  not, 
By  Peter  's  beard,  I  '11  pour  it  down  thy  throat  ! 

VIVIAN. 

A  courteous  host  art  thou  to  threaten  thus  ! 
What  though  a  minstrel,  am  I  not  thy  guest? 

GEOFFREY. 

Did  I  invite  thee,  churl  ?     Come,  wilt  thou  drink  ? 
VIVIAN. 

I  will  when  thy  betrothed  becomes  thy  bride, — 
And  that  will  never  be. 

GEOFFREY. 

Thou  liest,  knave  ! 

[He  approaches  her  with  the  cup,  but  she  strikes  it  with 
her  hand,  dashing  the  contents  in  his  face. 

By  Jesu's  blood,  I  '11  have  thee  whipped  for  this  ! 
VIVIAN. 

As  thou  wilt  have  thy  wife,  methiuks,  when  she 
Hath  used  thee  likewise  —  and  she  will.  [Exit . 

GEOFFREY. 

Pardie, 
Who  would  have  thought  the  varlet  had  such  spleen  ? 

23 


I  '11  punish  him.     But  how  ?     'T  were  not  enough 

To  flog  him,  and  then  banish  from  our  lands. 

Best  wait  until  my  sire  returns,  ere  when 

I  shall  devise  a  keener  grief  for  him. 

Meanwhile,  that  I  may  have  companionship 

Of  merry  lads,  I  '11  bid  Johan  admit 

All  minstrels  that  may  happen  to  our  gates.          [Exit. 


ACT  III 

The  Castle  Courtyard.    Midnight.    Enter  VIVIAN. 

VIVIAN. 

I  cannot  sleep.     The  tender  breath  of  night 

Seems  all  atremble  for  the  summer's  kiss, 

And  Nature  yearns  with  voiceless  murmurings 

That  wake  my  soul  to  sigh  in  unison. 

Now  should  the  nightingale,  that  long  hath  hid, 

Like  a  sweet  odorous  flower,  her  throat  from  light, 

Swell  forth  her  passion  in  a  rippling  flood, 

Whose  every  drop  my  ears  would  strive  to  hold, 

As  reeds  that  bend  beside  the  rivulet. 

See  how  the  evening  star  draws  near  the  moon, 

More  bright  than  he.     I  wonder  if  't  is  true, 

As  poets  feign,  that  if  I  pray  to  her, 

She  '11  grant  a  meeting  with  the  one  I  love. 

But  I  love  no  one.     'T  is  a  foolish  thing, 

Yet  will  I  pray,  and  see  what  comes  of  it. 

[Sings] 

Evening-star,  O  evening-star, 

Brighter  than  the  moon, 
If  the  lover's  guide  you  are, 
Lead  my  true-love  from  afar, 

Lead  him  to  me  soon; 


Hear  my  prayer,  O  evening  star, 
Grant  that  dearest  boon. 

[  Voice  from  outside— rinys] 

Star  of  the  night,  lean  from  yon  height, 

And  look  down  where  my  lady  lies; 
Let  fall  your  gentlest  beam  of  light, 

To  rest  aslant  her  dreamy  eyes. 
And  whisper  to  her,  star  of  night, 
That  one  who  long  hath  loved  her,  all  unseen, 
Will  find  her  though  the  world  be  fixed  between. 

Star  of  the  night,  guide  me  aright, 
And  lead  me  where  my  lady  lies; 
I'll  bend  to  kiss  her  forehead  white, 

And  wake  her  smile  of  sweet  surprise; 
Then  may  we  know  the  dear  delight 
Of  lovers,  meeting,  heart  close  pressed  to  heart. 
Whom,  ages  long,  the  world  hath  kept  apart. 

VIVIAN. 

Was  that  a  minstrel  ?     Nay,  no  minstrel's  voice 
E'er  held  so  little  earthliness.     Perchance 
It  was  a  fairy;  or  there  was  no  voice. 
My  fancy  charmed  by  the  night's  sweet  spell 
Hath  but  imagined  it.     Yet  sooth,  I  would 
The  witchery  might  seize  me  thus  again. 

VOICB  OUTBIDS. 

Ho,  watchman,  pray  unlock  your  hostile  door, 
And  give  a  wanderer  shelter  for  the  night. 


VIVIAN. 

O  evening-star,  I  trow  you  heard  my  prayer; 
Now  may  this  stranger  prove  to  figure  forth 
All  that  his  voice  has  presaged.     Tall  and  straight, 
L,ithe  as  a  willow  should  he  be.     In  face 
Not  beautiful,  but  gentle.     Soft,  he  comes! 

Enter  ROLAND. 

ROLAND. 

Ho,  lad  !     I  thought  I  heard  a  woman's  voice. 

VIVIAN. 
Was 't  you  that  sang  ? 

ROLAND. 

Nay,  lad,  't  was  you.  My  song 
Was  but  the  echo.     Tell  me,  why  stir  so  late  ? 
Had  I  not  come,  your  melody  were  lost 
On  careless  breezes. 

VIVIAN. 

Who,  that  loves  to  live, 

Could  sleep  on  such  a  night,  when  life  is  sweetest? 
Besides  that  I  like  solitude  —  or  did, 
A  moment  gone. 

ROLAND. 

Then  here  upon  this  bench 
We  '11  sit  and  talk,  until  the  restive  day 
Breaks  in  upon  our  quiet.     Sure,  you  're  young  ! 

27 


That  clear,  unwavering  tenor  never  yet 
Hath  felt  the  rough*  ning  breath  of  kindless  time. 
The  flower  of  youth  blooms  fair  within  your  cheek, 
All  dimpled  like  a  maiden's.     Why,  methiuks 
You  blush. 

VIVIAN. 

In  troth,  I'm  seventeen,  and  there 
You  scarce  can  boast  four  years,  to  overcast 
The  argument. 

KOI«AND. 

But  they  have  far  outworn 
The  bloom  of  boyhood.     Let  us  not  quarrel. 
I  like  you  well,  nor  could  I  love  you  more 
Unless  you  were  the  maiden  that  you  seem. 

VIVIAN. 
And  if  I  were  —  why,  then  ? 

ROI,AND. 

Faith,  this  is  rare  ! 

A  minstrel,  yet  unversed  in  ways  of  love  ! 
You  must  be  taught  forthwith.     Were  you  a  girl, 
I'd  thus  enclose  you  with  my  arm,  and  hold 
You  close  to  me,  and  to  your  dewy  lips 
Mine  own  enrapt  would  draw. 

VIVIAN. 

And  do  you  use 
All  maidens  so  ? 


ROLAND. 

Nay,  only  one,  dear  lad, 
Whom  I  shall  love,  so  long  as  life  remains ; 
I  do  confess  I  have  not  found  her  yet, 
Wherefore  I  roam  the  country,  visiting 
The  castles  of  our  knights,  where  't  is  most  like 
The  fairest  maidens  may  be  seen. 

VIVIAN. 

And  she, 

The  mistress  whom  you  seek,  how  should  she  look  ? 
Have  you  prefigured  her  ? 

ROLAND. 

Cheeks  should  be  hers 

Like  primroses  that  glow  in  Marchy  winds  ; 
Her  eyes  like  dew-bright  pansies,  and  her  mouth 
Fragrant  and  soft  as  the  carnation  flower  ; 
Her  throat  as  pure  as  white-thorn — 

VIVIAN. 

Why,  methinks, 
You  'd  love  a  garden. 

ROLAND. 

Thou  'rt  a  saucy  elf. 
In  sooth  I  cannot  catalogue  her  so; 
But  this  I  ween,  she  shall  be  like  to  you, 
And  till  I  find  her,  I  would  make  of  you 
A  comrade.     Wilt  thou  share  my  wanderings  ? 
Perchance  thou,  too,  may'st  find  a  lady-love. 

29 


VIVIAN. 

O,  never  one,  for  whom  I  would  leave  thee. 
ROLAND. 

Tush,  have  a  care  of  such  rash  vows.     They  break 
So  easily,  that  scarce  the  anchorite 
Can  keep  them  whole. 

VIVIAN. 

Most  sure,  I  '11  not  be  first 

To  break  our  comradeship.     But,  pray,  thy  name; 
I  'd  fain  know  that. 

ROLAND. 

'T  is  Roland,  named  for  him 
Who  won  renown  at  Roncevalles.     And  thine  ? 

VIVIAN. 
Is  Vivian. 

ROLAND. 

Who  fell  at  Aliscans. 

That  were  enough  to  bind  our  hearts  as  fast 
As  Amis  and  Amiles.     We  are  pledged 
Until  we  find  our  mistresses. 

VIVIAN. 

Until  ? 

O  may  that  sweet  '  until '  stretch  out  across 
Time's  chasm,  into  the  dim  eternities. 

ROLAND. 
This  is  a  strong  devotion  that  thou  urgest; 


Most  strange,  withal.     Truly,  dost  thou  not  wish 
It  were  a  maiden  sat  beside  thee  here, 
Whom  thou  might'st  thus  enfold  within  thy  arms, 
As  I  hold  thee  ? 

VIVIAN. 

Nay,  truly,  do  I  not. 
ROLAND. 

How  well  art  thou  assured  !  There  's  few  can  boast 
So  firm  an  armor  'gainst  a  maiden's  charms. 
What,  let  me  see  thy  face  !  Ho,  sweet  my  friend, 
The  secret 's  there  !  That  eyelash  shyly  drooped, 
And  that  rich  crimson  cheek  have  thee  betrayed. 
Ay,  every  word  thy  silver  voice  hath  chimed 
Confirms  thy  maidenhood. 

VIVIAN. 

Ah,  fickle  moon, 

To  shame  me  so  !  I  did  too  much  confide 
In  my  disguise,     Pray,  take  thine  arm  away, 
My  friend;  I  suffered  it  too  easily. 

ROLAND. 

But  why  ?  To  place  it  back  again  ?  Methinks 
It  were  a  waste  of  time.     Thou  hast  revealed  — 

VIVIAN. 

Too  much  that  ill  beseems  a  maiden.     Sooth, 
Thou  need'st  not  think  it  sooth  that  I  revealed; 
I  will  unsay  it  all. 


Then  say  it  all, 

Again?  Dear  Vivian,  I  pray  thee,  do; 
For  I  would  hear  it  fifty  times. 

VIVIAN. 

Not  so, 

But  thou,  instead,  shouldst  tell  thy  love  for  me; 
And  I  would  scorn  thee,  till  in  dull  despair, 
Thou  hadst  much  languished  at  my  feet,  and  sighed, 
And  rimed  me  tender  songs. 

ROI.AND. 

Why,  so  I  will. 
[Sings] 

Love  in  her  eyes  lies  sleeping, 

For  twenty  years  unstirred; 
Within  the  blue  depths  keeping, 

By  passion's  storm  unblurred. 
I  envy  Love  that  dwelling, 

And  yet  it  brings  despair, 
Lest,  my  heart's  call  repelling, 

She  sleep  for  ever  there. 

Recalls  a  tale,  implanted 

In  childhood's  bygone  day, 
How  in  a  wood  enchanted 

The  Sleeping  Beauty  lay, 
Until  a  prince  came,  breaking 

The  charm  that  held  her  fast, 
And,  at  his  kiss  awaking, 

She  lived  and  loved  at  last. 


So  sleeps  thy  love,  enchanted, 

Enchanting  all  that  see; 
Would  that  the  fairies  granted 

That  princely  boon  to  me, 
To  break  the  spell,  repressing 

The  fears  within  me  rife, 
And,  with  my  lips  caressing, 

To  wake  thy  love  to  life. 

VIVIAN. 

But  I  would  not  believe  thy  songs,  because 
Thou  art  a  minstrel.     I  would  thus  reply: 

[Sings] 

He  wrote  her  rimes  and  roundelays, 
And  hymned  his  love  in  divers  ways ; 
'  Dear  heart,'  he  sang,  '  I  love  but  you, 
I  love  you  ever,  love  you  true; 
You  are  the  light  of  all  my  days.' 

She  blushed  beneath  his  ardent  gaze, 
Her  young  soul  thrilled  with  sweet  amaze; 
Untaught  till  then,  she  never  knew 
A  poet's  love. 

She  little  guessed  that  all  his  praise, 
His  burning  words  and  passioned  phrase, 
Were  given  to  many  another,  too, 
For  out  of  art  his  amours  grew; 
And  tend'rest  verse  ofttimes  displays 
A  poet's  love. 

ROLAND. 

O,  that  were  most  unkind,  for  well  thou  knowest 
I  ne'er  loved  any  else. 


33 


VIVIAN. 

Thou  hast  not  said, 
As  yet,  thou  lovest  me. 

ROI^ND. 

Why,  every  word 

I  spoke  hath  said  it,  and  I  would  be  wed 
With  thee,  soon  as  thou  wilt. 
VIVIAN. 

Haste  not  so  fast  ! 

Perchance  I  am  betrothed  to  some  one  now, 
For  parents  oft  do  this. 

ROLAND. 

O  that  is  naught; 

Why,  even  I  am  so  by  contract  bound 
To  a  noble  lady,  daughter  of  the  Count 

Of  Brittany. 

VIVIAN. 

What  jest  is  this  thou  speakest  ? 
Thou  art  not  son  to  him  who  owns  these  lauds, 
Sir  Lionhard  of  Aquitaine  ? 

ROLAND. 

My  faith, 

I  am. 

VIVIAN. 

And  thou  art,  then,  that  elder  son, 
Of  whom  I  learned  this  very  eve — that  he 
Had  gone  from  home  to  minstrel  life.  But  why  ? 

34 


ROLAND. 

Because  I  would  not  wed,  save  whom  I  chose. 
VIVIAN. 

And  now,  I  think,  thou  hadst  regretted  it, 

And  hadst  returned  to  gain  thy  heritage. 

It  were  most  wise,  for  thou  didst  wrong  to  scorn 

One  whom  thou  hadst  not  seen.     Belike  she  '11  prove 

Well  worthy  of  thy  love. 

ROLAND. 

Howe'er  that  be, 

I  '11  none  of  her,  for  thee  alone  I  love, 
And  thee  will  wed,  or  not  at  all. 

VIVIAN. 

Meseems 

That  thou  shouldst  mate  with  one  of  gentle  birth, 
As  is  thine  own,  not  with  a  lowly  maid. 
This  lady,  thy  betrothed,  is  fair  of  face  — 
Or  so  they  say  —  and  not  unlike  to  me. 
I  deem  she  '11  love  thee  scarcely  less  than  I. 

ROLAND. 

Of  her  I  reck  not,  nor  of  gentle  birth  — 
For  that  I  have  renounced.     But  had  I  not, 
It  were  the  same,  I  love  thee,  dear,  so  well. 
But  when  I  wed  thee,  if  I  may,  I  '11  have 
A  father's  blessing.     This  requires  deceit; 
My  purpose  is  to  stain  my  face  and  hair, 

35 


And  sing  before  him.     If  it  please,  I  '11  crave 
A  boon,  which  is,  to  marry  whom  I  list. 

VIVIAN. 
Will  he  not  know  thee  ? 

ROLAND. 

Nay,  three  years  it  is 
Since  he  hath  seen  me;  was  away  at  wars. 

VIVIAN. 

But  he  is  now  from  home,  nor  may  return 
These  many  days. 


Why,  't  was  to-day  I  heard 

That  he  was  homeward  bound,  not  far  from  here; 
Where  he  had  been  I  know  not.     With  thy  help 
I  '11  cozen  him,  and  then  we  may  be  wed. 

VIVIAN. 

If  I  may  help  thee,  gladly  will  I  do  it; 
But,  prithee,  let  my  secret  not  be  known. 


Trust  me,  dear  Vivian. 

VOICE  OF  THE  WATCHMAN  FROM  THE  TOWER.    [/Sings] 

The  dawn  !  The  dawn  !  The  night  is  fled  ! 
The  eastern  sky  is  streaked  with  red  ; 
The  dawn,  the  dawn  is  come  ! 

VIVIAN. 

Is't  so  near  day? 
Then  we  must  part,  or  be  discovered  here. 


ROLAND. 
But  one  more  song  : 

I  Sings] 

Bright  them  art,  O  morning  star, 

In  the  morning-skies; 
But  the  light  is  brighter  far 

In  my  true-love's  eyes. 

Fair  thou  art,  O  morning  flush; 

But  how  wan  and  weak, 
Placed  beside  that  fairer  blush 

In  my  true-love's  cheek  ! 

Dear  thou  art,  O  morning-gold, 

Precious  wealth  and  rare; 
But  a  dearer  wealth  I  hold 

In  my  true-love's  hair. 

Clear  thou  art,  O  morning  tone 

In  the  song-bird's  note; 
But  a  clearer  sound  is  blown 

From  my  true-love's  throat. 

Sweet  thou  art,  O  morning-dew, 

That  the  queen -bee  sips; 
But  a  sweeter  drug  I  drew 

From  my  true-love's  lips. 

[Exeunt  severally. 


37 


235136 


ACT  IV 

Hall  in  the  Cuttle. 
COUNT,  VIVIAN,  ROLAND  and  RETAINERS  discovered. 

ROLAND.    [,Stny«] 

Sir  Roland  lies  beneath  a  lofty  pine, 

And  gazes  out  toward  Spain,  with  dimming  eyes; 

Then  he  remembers  him  of  many  things — 

Of  all  the  lands  his  conquering  arm  hath  won, 

Of  sweetest  France,  and  his  ancestral  line, 

Of  Charlemagne,  his  lord,  who  nourished  him, 

And  of  the  Franks,  by  whom  he  is  so  loved. 

He  does  not  weep  nor  moan  nor  make  lament, 

Nor  is  he  all  forgetful  of  himself, 

But  owns  his  sins,  and  prays  to  God  for  mercy: 

'  O  thou  true  Godhead,  who  hast  ne'er  deceived, 

Who  Lazarus  hast  raised  from  the  dead, 

And  guarded  Daniel  from  the  lion's  maw, 

Guard  thou  my  soul  from  harms  that  threaten  me, 

Because  of  sins  which  in  my  life  I  did.' 

So  praying,  he  extends  his  glove  to  heaven; 

Saint  Gabriel  receives  it  from  his  hand. 

The  Count  reclines  his  head  upon  his  arms, 

And  clasps  his  hands,  and  so  departs  this  life. 

Then  God  sends  down  his  holy  cherubim, 

With  them  Saint  Michael  of  the  perilous  sea, 

And,  guided  by  the  Angel  Gabriel, 

They  bear  Sir  Roland's  soul  to  Paradise. 

38 


COUNT. 

Most  nobly  told  !  But  that  the  sultry  suns 

Of  three-score  summers  had  dried  up  my  tears, 

I  ween  mine  eyes  had  dropped  their  dearer  praise, 

For  not  since  childhood  have  I  been  thus  moved. 

Where  hast  thou  learned  this  geste  ?  I  had  not  thought 

The  minstrel  lived  could  sing  it  now. 

VIVIAN. 

My  lord, 

He  learned  it  in  his  father's  castle.     Where 
This  is  he  knows  not.     He  was  but  a  child, 
When  stolen  by  the  Saracens,  with  whom 
He  hath  been  reared. 

COUNT. 

Why  speaketh  not  himself  ? 

VIVIAN. 

With  long  disuse,  he  hath  forgot  our  tongue, 
Save  for  these  songs,  from  cradle  crooned  to  him. 

COUNT. 
Marry,  this  is  most  strange  ! 

VIVIAN. 

Most  strange,  my  lord, 
And  marvellous  it  is.     But  see  his  face — 
How  burned  by  southern  heat. 

COUNT. 

So  it  appears  ; 
And  sayest  thou  he  knoweth  not  his  land  ? 


39 


VIVIAN. 

So  he  avers,  but  still  his  memory  holds 

An  image  of  the  castle.     When  he  sees, 

He  trows  that  he  will  recognize  his  home; 

Wherefore  he  roams  the  land,  and  visits  all 

In  search.     And,  sire,  he  craves  this  boon  of  you: 

Whene'er  his  quest  is  done,  if  he  hath  need, 

That  you  will  help  him  gain  his  heritage. 

COUNT. 

Right  gladly,  if  he  shows  just  claim  thereto. 
VIVIAN. 

Most  humble  thanks,  my  lord.     And  one  thing  more  : 
He  asks  that  you  will  bless  this  ring  he  wears. 
COUNT. 

This  is  a  strange  request,  yet  I  am  fain 
To  grant  it.     Bid  him  chant  another  geste, 
Or  tell  his  own  adventures,  which  should  be 
Pleasant  to  hear. 

Enter  GEOFFREY. 

But  hold  !  Anon  I'd  list, 
For  now  I  must  hold  converse  with  my  son, 

Alone. 

VIVIAN. 

My  lord,  we  will  await  your  pleasure. 

[Exeunt  ROLAND  and  VIVIAN. 
40 


GEOFFREY. 

Sire,  hath  this  smooth-tongued,  dissembling  knave 
Been  cozening  you  again  ? 

COUNT. 

Again,  thou  sayest  ! 
What  mean'st  thou? 

GEOFFREY. 

Why,  that  you  have  been  deceived 
In  him  —  naught  else,  I  do  assure  you,  sire. 

COUNT. 
But  how  ?     Be  not  so  niggard  of  thy  speech  ! 

GEOFFREY. 

In  sooth,  't  is  nothing  —  I  mislike  his  face  — 
But  tell  me,  sire,  why  come  you  back  so  soon  ? 
Surely  you  have  not  been  to  Brittany. 

COUNT. 

Nay,  Geoffrey,  for  the  Count,  as  I  am  told, 
Had  gone  abroad  to  seek  his  daughter;  —  she 
Hath  left  his  house,  for  some  mad,  girlish  whim  — 
I  know  not  what.     So  I,  perforce,  returned. 
But  we  were  speaking  of  our  minstrel-lad; 
What  hath  he  done  that  so  displeaseth  thee  ? 

GEOFFREY. 

Why,  troth,  I  did  suspect  him  —  let  it  pass  — 
It  was  a  trifling  thing  to  trouble  me. 
It  may  be  he  is  innocent  of  harm  — 
Most  like  he  is.     Pray,  do  not  question  me. 

41 


COUNT. 
Speak,  lad  !  I  say  that  I  would  know. 

GEOFFREY. 

But,  sire, 

Were  it  not  better  stay  in  ignorance 
Than  buy  your  knowledge  at  too  dear  a  rate  ? 

COUNT. 
I  bid  thee,  speak  ! 

GBOFFRKY. 

But,  ere  I  cast  the  die, 
I  warn  you  that  your  honor  's  in  the  hazard. 

COUNT. 
Speak! 

GEOFFREY. 

Last  night,  before  the  hour  of  twelve, 
I  saw  him  come  from  out  thy  lady's  chamber. 
Perchance  she  had  been  sleepless  —  had  the  boy 
To  rime  her  soothing  slumber-songs. 
COUNT. 

And  this  the  lad  that  nothing  knew  of  love  ! 
To  rime  her  songs  !  O  my  disastered  soul  ! 
To  find  my  danger  where  I  least  had  dreamed  ! 

[Exit. 
GEOFFREY. 

Pardie,  the  varlet  has  me  much  to  thank; 

Now  he  may  get  new  thoughts  whereof  to  sing  — 

New  feelings,  too  —  if  sing  of  them  he  can. 

[Exit. 


ACT  V 

The  Castle  Courtyard.    Enter  VIVIAN. 

VIVIAN.    [Sings] 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  thee, 

When  morn  gilds  the  orient  skies; 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  thee, 

When  the  shadows  of  even  arise. 
Day  or  night,  it  is  ever  the  same  ; 
Since  first  the  vision  before  me  came, 
It  hath  lived,  and  shall  live,  like  an  altar-flame, 

Till  the  heart  of  Love's  priesthood  dies. 

Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  thee, 

That  I  kept  thee  a  lover's  tryst; 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  thee, 

That  thy  breathing  lips  I  kissed; 
And  gazing  into  thy  shadowed  eyes, 
As  pure  and  vair  as  the  morning  skies, 
I  saw  the  tender  love-light  arise, 

Like  the  sun  from  the  morning-mist. 

Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  thee, 

For  dreams  are  the  lover's  art; 
Dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming  of  thee, 

And  that  dream  shall  never  depart; 
Nor  would  I  wish  from  its  thrall  to  be  free, 
For  though  I  knew  thou  cared  naught  for  me, 
Still  I  would  rather  be  dreaming  of  thee, 

Than  be  winning  another's  heart. 


43 


Enter  COUNT. 
COUNT. 

How,  lying  knave  !  What  song  is  this  I  hear  ? 
Didst  thou  not  say  thou  couldst  not  sing  of  love, 
Because  thou  hadst  not  known  it  ?  Answer  me  ! 

VIVIAN. 
In  sooth,  my  lord,  I  did.     Since  then  — 

COUNT. 

Since  then  ! 

O  matchless  impudence;  to  boast  thy  crime 
To  him  thou  hast  dishonored  ! 

VIVIAN. 

Why,  my  lord, 

May  I  not  love  without  dishonoring  you  ? 
COUNT. 

0  monstrous  thing!     What  beast  hath  whelped  thee? 

Speak! 

Is  this  the  minstrel  code  —  to  love  the  wife 
Of  him  who  harbors  thee,  and  think  't  no  wrong? 

VIVIAN. 

1  have  not  loved  her  more  than  doth  beseem, 
My  lord,  nor  more  than  I  love  you. 

COUNT. 

Who,  then, 

I  fain  would  learn,  hath  wrought  in  thee  the  flame 
Thy  song  disclosed  ? 


VIVIAN. 
Your  son,  my  lord. 

COUNT. 

My  son  ! 

O  likely  tale,  that  minstrels  men  adore  ! 
Enough  of  this.     My  son,  whom  thou  dost  love, 
Hath  told  me  how  he  saw  thee  come  by  stealth 
From  out  my  lady's  chamber  yesternight. 
What  sayest  thou  to  that  ? 

VIVIAN. 

What  should  I  say, 

But  to  deny  ?  —  And  naught  would  that  avail 
'Gainst  your  son's  word. 

Enter  ROLAND. 

ROLAND. 

But  I'll  say  more  than  this; 
And  will  assure  you  of  his  innocence, 
My  lord,  for  he  was  yesternight  with  me, 
Here  in  the  courtyard. 

COUNT. 

What,  thou  errant  knight, 

Who  canst  not  speak  our  Prankish  tongue  !  My  faith, 
Think'st  thou  thy  words  are  weightier  than  his  ? 
A  little  while  agone,  he  lied  for  thee; 
And  thou  dost  well  so  nobly  to  requite  him, 
But  't  is  in  vain;  thou  canst  not  cozen  me. 

45 


Begone,  or  tliou  shalt  share  his  fate  —  which  is 
To  dangle  from  a  tree  outside  my  walls, 
As  warning  to  the  wanton  minstrel-tribe. 
ROLAND. 

The  lad  is  innocent  —  and  here  's  my  sword 
Shall  prove  it,  'gainst  the  stoutest  of  your  knights 
Dares  challenge  it. 

COUNT. 

Thou  shalt  not  have  the  trial ! 
I  would  not  so  debase  a  man  of  mine, 
To  fight  with  thee,  a  nameless  mongrel  churl. 

ROLAND. 
My  blood  's  as  good  as  thine. 

COUNT. 

What  sayest  thou, 

Bold  prince  of  mendicants  ?     As  good  as  mine  ? 
It  shall  be  drink  for  dogs,  an  thou  speed  not 
To  pass  my  gates. 

ROLAND. 

I  shall  not  go,  my  lord, 

Without  the  lad.     You  '11  have  a  surer  proof, 
Ere  long,  that  he  is  blameless  as  the  heavens, 
And  that  your  lady  has  been  foully  wronged 
In  your  suspicion. 

COUNT. 

Cease  this  dallying, 


And  go  thy  way.     I^eave  me  to  deal  with  this, 
Or  by  my  faith,  I  '11  split  thee  like  an  egg. 

[Draws  sword. 
VIVIAN. 

O  stay  your  hand,  my  lord;  I  will  confess 
The  whole. 

COUNT. 

Confess  !     Thou  hast  enough  confessed 
To  forfeit  twenty  lives.     Hell's  dearest  pain 
Could  not  atone  for  what  thou  hast  confessed. 

[Moves  toward  her ;  ROLAND  interposes. 

Avaunt  !  A  vaunt,  I  say  ! 

ROLAND. 

Hear  us,  my  lord; 
You  would  regret  — 

[The  COUNT  raises  his  sword. 
VIVIAN. 
Strike  not  !    He  is  your  son  ! 

[The  COUNT  strikes  at  ROLAND,  who  tries  to  parry 
the  blow,  but  the  sword,  glancing  off  his  own, 
strikes  his  head,  and  fells  him  to  the  ground. 

VIVIAN. 
Ah,  sire,  your  son. 

[Drops  to  her  knees  and  bends  over  him. 
47 


COUNT. 
My  son  !  It  cannot  be  ! 

VIVIAN. 

Roland,  my  love,  O  Roland,  Roland,  speak; 
Forgive  me  for  the  fault — I  should  have  told. 
This  foolish  whim  —  forgive  —  Roland,  my  love. 

COUNT. 

Let  me  see  's  face.     In  sooth,  I  think  't  is  he; 
Three  years  would  change  him  much.  And  look  !  The 

brown 

Is  but  a  stain  —  how  pale  the  skin  gleams  through  ! 
Yet  he  "s  not  dead.     Surely  he  cannot  be. 
Ho,  Giles  !  Johan  !  Bring  water,  wine.     And  this 
Is  Roland  —  O  my  rash  incontinence  ! 
But  thou  who  so  lamentst  him  —  by  what  right 
Thy  tears  bedew  his  face  —  thy  lips  caress 

His  brow  ? 

VIVIAN. 

A  better  right  than  thine,  my  lord. 

I  loved  him. 

COUNT. 

What  is  this  ?     No  boy  art  thou 
To  plead  such  love  for  him.     A  maid  thou  art. 
I  should  have  guessed  thee,  long  ere  this.     But,  child, 
Grieve  not  so  heavily;  most  like  he  '11  live. 

Enter  RETAINERS. 
He  hath  no  wound:  the  blow  hath  only  stunned. 


[  To  RETAINERS  ] 

Bear  him  within,  and  place  him  on  my  bed. 
[To  VIVIAN] 

And  if  he  loves  thee,  naught  will  I  withsay, 
But  thou  shalt  have  him.     Why  didst  not  reveal 
Thyself,  before  ? 

VIVIAN. 

It  was  a  maiden  shame 

That  sealed  my  lips  —  to  wear  such  bold  attire. 
It  nearly  cost  the  dearest  life  i'  the  world. 
Forgive  me,  sire. 

COUNT. 

An  thou  forgivest  me. 

[ROLAND  is  lorne  into  the  castk,  VIVIAN  follotving. 
Enter  RETAINER  from  outside. 

RETAINER. 

My  lord,  the  Count  of  Brittany  is  here; 
Craves  audience. 

COUNT. 

Admit  him. 

[Exit  RETAINER. 

Strange  he  comes 
At  such  a  time. 


49 


Enter  the  COUNT  OF  BRITTANY,  with  retinue. 

BRITTANY. 

Greetings,  Count  Lionhard 
Of  Aquitaine.     I  pray  you,  pardon  this, 
My  coming  so  unheralded;  but  'tis 
An  urgent  quest  hath  brought  nie  —  nothing  less 
Than  tidings  of  my  daughter.     Is  she  here? 
Or  any  fair  young  minstrel  lad,  for  so 
She  is  disguised? 

COUNT. 

My  lord  of  Brittany, 
You  come  at  fitting  season,  for  I  trow 
We  '11  drink  the  nuptial  wine  ere  you  depart  — 
If  't  is  indeed  thy  daughter  that  of  late 
Hath  livened  us  with  minstrel-song. 
BRITTANY. 

Well  sped  ! 

I  feared  a  thousand  evils;  hardly  hoped 
For  consummation  of  our  dearest  wish  — 
To  have  our  children  joined.     For  this  to  scape, 
My  daughter  fled  my  house,  with  vow  that  she 
Would  never  wed,  save  by  her  own  desire. 
And  of  your  son  I  lately  heard  the  like. 

COUNT. 

But  now,  I  ween  that  both  are  of  a  mind 
To  bide  our  contract. 


BRITTANY. 

This  is  grateful  news. 

Enter  the  COUNTESS  OF  AQUITAINE. 

COUNTESS. 

Most  welcome,  Count;  your  daughter  is  within, 
Quitting  her  garb  for  that  which  more  beseems. 
She  hopes  you  may  forgive. 

BRITTANY. 

Forgive  ?  Ay,  all; 

And  thrice  as  much  as  all.     L,ead  me  to  her, 
That  doubt  may  cloud  her  eyes  with  tears  no  more, 
And  I  may  know  that  sweetest  happiness 
Of  clasping  in  my  arms  a  child  restored. 

COUNT.    [  To  RETAINER  ] 
Attend  my  lord  the  Count  of  Brittany. 

[Exit  BRITTANY. 

And  now,  dear  coz,  is  Roland  yet  astir  ? 

I  trow  thou  wouldst  hardly  have  left  him  else. 

COUNTESS. 

He  hath  revived,  and  will  be  here  anon. 

COUNT. 

And  of  our  gentle  friend, —  how  knewest  thou 
She  was  a  girl,  and  daughter  to  the  Count, 
Our  guest  ? 


COUNTESS. 

She  scarce  had  entered  here,  my  lord, 
Ere  that  I  deemed  she  was  of  tend'rer  stuff 
Than  men's;  a  keener  glance  failed  not  of  proof. 
So  yestereve  I  haled  her  to  my  chamber; 
There  plied  with  question  till  she  all  confessed. 

COUNT. 

The  visit  might  have  been  of  dire  import, 
Through  my  unbridled  hastiness;  but,  love, 
Thou  wilt  forgive,  and  let  the  matter  rest  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Freely,  my  lord,  if  aught  be  unforgiven. 
But  here  comes  Roland. 

Enter  ROI*A.ND. 

ROI.AND. 

Vivian,  my  love  ! 
O  sire,  where  is  she ?    What  hast  done  with  her? 

COUNT. 

Whom  mean'st  thou,  son  ?  Our  pretty  minstrel-lad  ? 
In  sooth,  thou  'It  never  see  the  knave  again. 

ROLAND. 

What  say  you,  sire?  An  you  have  done  her  ill, 
The  dearest  blood  in  Christendom  's  too  poor 
To  glut  my  vengiug  sword. 


COUNT. 

Becalm  thy  rage. 

These  are  unknightly  mouthings,  shameful  oaths. 
He  is  unharmed,  but  gone  from  hence.     And  thou 
Shalt  stay  with  us,  and  'joy  thine  heritage. 
We  overlook  thy  foolish  errantry. 
To  crown  thy  fortune,  thy  betrothed  is  here, 
And  we  will  have  thee  wed,  incontinent. 

ROLAND. 

It  irks  me,  sire,  to  find  you  thus  disposed; 
For,  know  you  well,  I  would  not  have  to  wife 
This  lady,  though  you  offered  all  the  wealth 
Of  fifty  heritages,  and  she  were 
The  richest-dowered  maiden  in  the  land. 
Another  have  I  chosen,  and  shall  have, 
Despite  thy  bidding.     She  it  was,  of  late, 
In  minstrel-guise  sang  here  before  you,  sire. 
Marked  you  what  wondrous  fluty  voice  she  had? 
Where'er  she  go,  I  '11  follow  her.     Not  for 
The  fleur-de-lis  of  France  would  I  resign 
My  lily  flower,  my  love  o'  the  tender  eyes. 

COUNT. 

Thou  pratest  idly,  boy.     She  whom  for  thee 
I  chose,  is  just  as  fair,  as  lovable, 
Hath  just  as  sweet  a  voice,  as  tender  eyes, 
Will  love  thee  even  as  well.     Forget  this  lass, 
Of  whom  thou  knowest  not  the  birth. 


53 


ROLAND. 

Nor  care. 
I  love  her.    Naught  can  weigh  the  balance  down 

'Gainst  that. 

COUNT. 

Not  even  my  will,  thou  impious  boy? 
I  say  it  shall.     The  daughter  of  the  Count 
Is  thy  betrothed,  and  she  shall  be  thy  bride. 


And  I  say  none  but  Vivian,  my  love, 
Shall  e'er  be  mine. 

Enter  COUNT  OF  BRITTANY,  with  VIVIAN  in  woman'*  dreu. 

COUNT. 

Dost  thou  withsay  me  still? 
Behold  thy  bride,  daughter  of  Brittany  ! 
I  bid  thee  go  embrace  her.     See,  dear  Count, 
How  he  obeys  !     No  opposition  there  ! 
And  sooth,  I  think  that  thou  wilt  find  as  little. 
How  pliant  to  our  wills  the  children  are  ! 
Roland,  why  dost  thou  not  fall  on  thy  knees 
Before  me,  thanking  for  thy  lovely  bride? 
Is  not  my  choice  as  fair  as  thine? 

COUNTESS. 

My  lord, 

'T  is  fortune  rather  should  be  thanked  for  this, 
Our  undeserved  felicity. 

54 


BRITTANY. 

Most  strange, 

How  chance  hath  mocked  our  toils,  only  to  grant 
Our  dearest  wish  at  last. 

ROLAND. 

My  gracious  sire, 

I  sue  for  pardon.     I  know  't  were  much  amiss 
To  balk  thy  hest  —  yet  were  the  past  recalled, 
I  doubt  not  it  would  fare  as  it  hath  done. 
COUNT. 

I  fear  it  would,  but  I  forgive  thee  all, 
For  which  the  blow  I  gave  thee  hath  atoned. 
As  earnest  oft,  thy  birthright  is  returned, 
Which  thou  in  noble  rage  of  love  hast  spurned. 

ROLAND.    [Sings'] 
Long  had  I  dreamed  of  the  laurel  wreath 

That  circles  the  brows  of  conquering  kings, 
And  saw,  in  visions,  my  head  beneath 

Such  a  trophy  as  only  great  victory  brings. 
I  dreamed  of  the  tourney,  the  battle-din, 

My  veins  were  thrilled  by  the  battle-fire; 
The  soldier's  laurels  my  life  would  win; 

This  was  the  goal  of  my  heart's  desire. 

And  then  I  dreamed  of  the  minstrel's  meed; 

In  the  realms  of  song  would  I  spend  my  days, 
To  hymn  the  hero's  glorious  deed, 

And  be  crowned  with  a  monarch's  garland  of  praise. 
Courage  should  burn  in  the  eyes  of  men, 

And  in  ladies'  tears,  when  I  smote  the  lyre; 


55 


These  were  the  laurels  my  life  would  win; 
This  was  the  goal  of  my  heart's  desire. 

But  now  I  dream  of  the  lover's  prize, 

And  naught  in  my  fancy  shall  ever  hold  place, 
Save  only  my  sweetheart's  radiant  eyes, 

Illumed  with  the  light  of  God's  holiest  grace. 
The  strife  was  ended,  the  song  begun, 

When  I  saw  enkindled  the  mystic  fire; 
For  this  is  the  laurel  my  life  hath  won, 

And  this  is  the  goal  of  my  heart's  desire. 

Curtain. 


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